Cycles of the Heart
by shalom378
Summary: ""Sherlock. I was going to tell you- soon- but I thought you would have figured it out by now." Sherlock pays no attention to her, pacing still, and seems to have fallen into the deep recesses of his brilliant mind." Short, Sherlolly, Fluffy :)


**Hey-o everyone! I just want to first off thank all of you for your tremendously awesome feedback on my other Sherlolly stories! Because of this, here's another for you :) **

**Second, I just want to say ****how sorry I am for using Lexie's pictures without permission**** as my other cover images- I didn't really think about what I was doing, and the problem has been remedied :')**

**THANK YOU SO MUCH LOVE YOU ALL! **

Light filters in through the blinds on 221 Baker Street, causing Molly Holmes to flinch away from the bright sun. She sits up in bed, cheeks rosy with a good night's sleep, and stretches. After fixing the straps of her sleeping tank top she gathers her long hair over one shoulder and surveys the little room.

"Sherlock?" she whispers tentatively, when a search of the sheets beside her brings up no detective. The word has barely left her lips when he comes swinging into the room, balancing a breakfast tray with a pot of tea and some toast.

"Good morning," he says, setting the tray across a still-sleepy Molly's lap. He then sits on the edge of the bed, his robe and slippered feet trailing the ground. "How are you feeling today?"

"Um," Molly nibbles on a piece of toast, squinting at Sherlock. "Just fine. And what is the meaning of this pleasant surprise?" She asks, gesturing at the tray.

"Oh. That. Well, as a matter of fact, it is the seventh of March." He states this calmly, as if it explains everything, and takes a sip of her tea from a rose-colored china cup on the tray.

"Yes. And?" Molly counters impatiently.

"You are menstruating, are you not?"

"_What_?!" she sputters, rosy cheeks becoming immensely more rosy.

"I didn't get the date wrong, did I?" He scuttles over to the adjacent wall where a yearly calendar hangs, and rifles through the pages, whilst sipping from a too-feminine cup. "Ah, yes. On the fourth of each month, you tend to be moody, displaced. On the sixth, you binge on a diet made up nearly entirely of wine gums, fruit pastilles, and liquorice allsorts. On the seventh-" he gives a meaningful glance in Molly's direction- "you start. Like clockwork." He lets the pages fall to rest at March and slides back into bed.

Molly closes her mouth and stares at Sherlock, reading the morning paper. "Excellent," he murmurs to himself. "Three unsolved murders."

"As much as I am… _flattered _by your tracking my… menstruation, your calculations are incorrect," she says, setting the tray on the bedside table.

"Impossible," he sighs, turning a page. "Unless you have cancer." Molly stiffens, but he continues. "You haven't had any headaches, stomach pains, ulcers of the mouth, and even your dietary habits are normal of late minus the five tacos you ate Tuesday."

"It was Mexican Night," she mumbles, then "Well I do appreciate your concern, and the breakfast is very sweet, I am- I am not on my period."

For the first time, Sherlock looks up from his paper and locks eyes with his wife. "You're… not?" He pushes off the bed, forehead creased, and paces at the foot of the bed, hands pressed together to form a steeple against his lips.

Molly sighed. There was no going back now.

"Sherlock. I was going to tell you- soon- but I thought you would have figured it out by now." She shifts forward, crawls along the length of the bed, and swings her legs over the edge. Sherlock pays no attention to her, pacing still, and seems to have fallen into the deep recesses of his brilliant mind. He stops when she tugs at his arm.

"Sherlock Holmes… I- I…" Molly folds her shaking hands in her lap. "I am pregnant."

He gives her a swift and fleeting look that contains shock and confusion, then gives in to a warm smile. "Why, Molly…"

He is so pleased that he swoops her off the bed and cradles her in his arms, giving her a long kiss. She pulls back after a moment, relief lighting up her features. "Not very good deducing, Mr. Holmes," she says, smirking.

"Would've gotten there eventually," he replies smartly, lips against her forehead. "Let's go tell John and Mary. Now."

"Now? But it's eight in the morning! And we're in pajamas!"

"Never mind!" He says with giddy defiance, and sweeps Molly Holmes out the door. Their laughter carries down the hall until the front door is slammed shut.

The toast sits on the now-cold plate beside the lukewarm cup of tea. The house is quiet.

A small creak of the floorboards. A hand reaches out, picks up the teacup, and brings it to a set of smiling lips.

Sip.

"Well well well, Sherly-boy." The man chuckles and sets down the cup on a nearby desk. "I didn't think you had it in you. A baby, already?" The hand picks up a framed photo of Sherlock and Molly in their wedding outfits, beaming into the camera. "Too bad. Would've been easier without the kid." The hand drops the frame, and it shatters upon impact with the ground, spider- webbing cracks against the newly-weds's faces.

A pair of classy, well-shined shoes shuffles around the broken glass and walks to the front door. The hand trails against the coatrack, brushing against a scarf and lab coat.

Jim Moriarty smiles. "Too bad indeed."

**I'M SORRY I HAD TO MAKE IT CREEPY! Dang it Moriarty, you ruin everything :P Sorry about my writing today, everyone is a little out of character. I'm an Oregonian, used to 60-degree weather, and today it was NINETY-SEVEN. And no A/C in my house! So I typed this while sitting on my bed, computer on my legs and a black electric fan near my face… ridiculosity! Anyway… review! Please! PM! Please! Bye :) **

**Also, please note my amazing Google-ing skills to find different types of British candy. I have ties to Australia, however, so liquorice allsorts was a must ;) **


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